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March 01, 2015

Yesterday as I sat on the train, waiting for it to leave the station, I said to my husband, "I hate living here!" We were late for a lunch date, and as is typical on a weekend, the trains were running 20 minutes apart, sometimes longer.

It wasn't just the trains, of course. It was everything. The dreariness of winter, with ugly patches of snow covering the even uglier grass. The sterile, 70s-era train stations, not meant to entertain but to move people around the city in as utilitarian a fashion as possible. The frustrations of driving anywhere, stopping and starting at the whim of the endless traffic signals.

After uttering those words, I stewed for a minute, then remembered what day it was: The last day of February. It was six months ago, today, that we moved from England to the United States. Half a year.

The six month mark is always the hardest. You're hopeful when you first move to a new location, even if it's a move you dreaded. There are many possibilities—new friends, new places to explore, new opportunities. Six months later, you realize that the possibilities haven't turned into reality. Your attempts to discover new places doesn't always go to plan—like the time I went to the Library of Congress and ended up at the Supreme Court building instead. And everyone in the new location already has friends; you're just another stranger to them. And while you spend much of your time in the early months shopping for necessities for your new abode, eventually shopping just becomes a chore, even at once exciting, new-to-you places like Target and Costco and Whole Foods.

Today, on the six month anniversary of our arrival at Dulles Airport, it's sleeting outside. I can hear the ice pelting the windows. This warm, inviting country doesn't seem so inviting anymore. Well-meaning friends tell me to hang on, there are cherry blossoms around the corner, but I noticed the Potomac was frozen over yesterday.

If D.C is a charming place, I have yet to discover it. The buildings are too new. The streets are too wide. The Metro is too scary. This city tries too hard to take itself seriously—I've walked up those Supreme Court steps, remember. They're not imposing; they're just cold and slippery and potentially quite deadly. I find Parliament Square altogether more inviting than Capital Hill.

I remember our first week here. It was hot, the outside air filled with loud insect noises, the inside air filled with the strange noise of the air conditioner. But still, there was that pregnant air of possibility.

Sometimes I feel like an exotic flower, uprooted from the soil it's known for ten years and forced to grow in frozen, foreign ground. They say you bloom where you're planted, but so far my roots haven't gotten a foothold. Maybe I need more fertilizer.

January 21, 2015

Someone asked me what I missed most about England, a question that seems impossible to quantify. I miss National Trust properties, but I also miss the walks, and I miss Black Park a little more than I miss Burnham Beeches, but I'd give anything to walk through my Common and smell the moldy leaves.

So I thought I would make a list: Top Three Things I Miss About England. (The answer would not be "all of it" because that would include the plumbing and I definitely don't miss the plumbing, despite discovering that plumbing in America isn't all it's cracked up to be either.)

1. The walks. The circular walks, the rambles, the hikes—call them what you will, but walking was my favorite past time in England. Almost every Sunday we laced up our boots, snapped a harness on the dog, and headed out to a favorite spot. My early years in England were spent exploring the countryside with my dog and my hiking group. By the time Sparky came along, we had to confine ourselves to wooded parks and areas not likely to contain livestock, but the familiar became even more beloved. A Sunday afternoon at Black Park, once we'd escaped the crowded areas near the carpark, was the best gift we gave ourselves and our dog, who loved racing up and down the paths. If I moved back tomorrow, that would be the first thing I'd do.

2. The day trips. From where we lived, the range of options for day trips—a destination less than two hours away, which allowed us to be back home in time for dinner for both us and the dog—was simply inexhaustible. National Trust properties, English Heritage sites, Royal Palaces, historic homes, gardens, ruins, museums, cities like Oxford and Winchester and Cambridge—all could be done in a day, and even further destinations: Wales, Derbyshire, and even France, could be squeezed in for a determined road warrior like me. I got to know the back alleys of Oxford after dozens of trips, and again, the familiar was all the more beloved. If I moved back tomorrow, a day trip to a National Trust property would be a top priority.

3. The timezone. I didn't spend all my time walking, or exploring historic homes and castles and gardens. No, I spent most of my time doing what I'm doing now, writing, tweeting, catching up on the news of the day, being a part of the world. And living in the zero-hour time zone of GMT allowed me to wake up before most of the world, the world of my Twitter timeline anyway. I always felt like I had a head start on the rest of the English-speaking population, especially since I would start my days early, often at 4 am. Oddly, I miss that feeling very much, although there are compensations: I watched the State of the Union last night in real time, something I haven't been able to do in a decade. And I enjoy having an extra hour of daylight in the winter, now that I live at a lower latitude. I'll regret that in the summer though, when I lose precious daylight from the longest days of the year.

Runners Up:

The feeling of safety I had in the UK, where the stranger you meet in the woods isn't likely to be armed and the shops you visit would never be the scene of an accidental, or otherwise, shooting. Friendly Americans aren't so friendly when they're packing heat, and far too many of them do.

The driving. I'd trade the massive I-495 for the more manageable M25 any day, and I'd even trade the GW Parkway for a narrow country lane. Driving was just more fun in the UK.

The weather. Yes, I said it: I like English weather just fine, especially the temperatures: never too hot, never too cold. Here we've already had temperatures ranging from the teens to the 100s in less than six months. English weather is, usually, much better behaved, although I wouldn't relive the summer of 2012 for anything.

The coins. Much more efficient coinage. America needs to get rid of the penny and make $2 and $5 coins to keep up with inflation.

Things that didn't make the list:

Pubs. I was never that enamoured of pubs. The food was really atrocious at most, merely okay at others. (I can only vouch for the vegan fare, and the occasional sticky toffee pudding.) Many of the pubs in our town closed down or were turned into upscale restaurant chains, and I wasn't disappointed at all, perhaps because I still think most beer tastes like piss.

The people, or at least most of them. The English deserve their frosty reputation, but there are many exceptions. I made lots of casual friends there but few I keep in touch with. Most of my close friends turned out to be foreigners like me, Canadians and Americans and others who clung together in what was often a rather chilly, unwelcoming country. And by "people", I mostly mean UKIP voters.

Parking wardens. For one thing, it's alliterative, and for another, they're just evil, no matter on which continent they practice their wickedness.

January 12, 2015

No, that's not a photo from the 1960s. It's from 2014, made after the leaves have fallen from the trees, which highlights the subject of the photo, and of this blog post: the overhead powerlines.

As I document the differences I find here from life in southern England, the barren trees have exposed another oddity that didn't seem so stark when I first moved here in late August. Overhead powerlines run from house to house, alongside neighborhood streets in a suburb not that far from the nation's capital. Yet you'd think you were in the Indian subcontinent, where power lines, for those lucky enough to have electricity, are all exposed.

Or maybe in the outer edges of Scotland.

I don't recall seeing overhead powerlines in the leafy suburbs surrounding London. That's because most powerlines are buried. As a result, we rarely lost electricity. In fact, the only time I remember it happening was when workmen were digging in the street above our cul-de-sac. I wrote about it here; it was quite the cultural experience.

There are many reasons why most powerlines in the US are not buried. The cost of burying powerlines over the larger populated geographical areas here is estimated to be in the billions (not just a few billion, either: $41 billion, according to the latest estimate). Power companies don't want to pay for it, despite the costs involved of restoring electricity to their customers when the lines inevitably come down during the frequent storms that hit the American continent. Nor do their customers want higher electricity bills, and are willing, one would assume, to put up with not-so-infrequent power outages.

It's led to those with means installing generators. Our house has a whole-house natural gas generator which I expect we'll use one day. There are lots of trees in this neighborhood, tall trees with limbs just waiting to fall on unsuspecting power lines. And there are multitudes of squirrels who also can damage power lines.

Those retro powerlines represent not just the frugal nature of Americans, and their governments' (both state, local, and federal) unwillingness to impose taxes for the common good, they also represent just how vast and unweildy our suburbs have become. They're strung together with flimsy power cords and poles certain to come down as soon as the next hurricane season gets underway, or the next category four tornado rolls in from the Plains.

Forty-one billion doesn't sound that bad, when you're freezing in an unheated home and watching your frozen food melt. Personally, I'd prefer a more streamlined aesthetic to my neighborhood, even if—especially if—it prevents the squirrels from using powerlines as a method of transport.

November 17, 2014

Sparky keeps an eye out for squirrels, not realizing the real danger is from raccoons.

Or, Further Adventures in Repatriation.

There are no raccoons in Britain. And in southern England, our deer were small, about the size of the average dog, and they didn't jump over the fence and eat my hostas. And our potatoes, despite the fact they came from the New World, were much better, with more varieties than you could ever possibly learn to spell.

First, the raccoon problem: Our yard here is much bigger than our yard in Britain, and hence, when Sparky takes his Kongs outside and drops them, as he is wont to do when he's excited (which is most of the time), they become lost. And the leaf cover doesn't help. If we send him out to look for them, he can find them, despite the leaf cover, but only if we realize they're out there before nightfall. Several times, they've just disappeared, but then I found one in an unexpected place: in the woods, about twelve feet from the fence.

And yesterday, I found the latest lost Kong in the same spot.

I suspected foxes, or maybe the large buck that's skipped over the fence a time or two. According to the neighbor, he's there to nibble the hostas, not hard rubber Kong toys. I really couldn't imagine how the Kongs got across the fence, unless somehow Sparky had learned to manipulate the latch on the gate and was taking himself for off leash walks in the woods every day.

Then the same neighbor suggested raccoons might be responsible for the Kong abduction. I'd lived in England so long that I completely forgot about the existence of raccoons. Badgers and hedgehogs, yes, but as far as I know the only badgers in North America are in Wisconsin, and hedgehogs never made the trans-Atlantic voyage. But apparently raccoons are dexterous enough, sneaky enough, and probably desperate enough, too, to take a Kong toy under a chain link fence.

I suspect Sparky knows they've been there, too. He's mainly concerned about the deer, who are the size of cows here, and unlike the cows, they actually do come over the fence. We saw a young buck one evening, and by the time I let Sparky out he'd already cleared the fence, and was standing in the neighbor's yard, calmly munching on foliage while Sparky barked for all he's worth. Deer do not scatter like the cows do when a dog barks at close range. I suspect raccoons don't either.

On a completely unrelated note, I still haven't found potatoes that are anywhere as good as Maris Piper, Roseval, King Edward, or Charlotte, or my favorite for mash, Mozart. I would plant a garden and try to grow them, but I suspect that would only give the deer more reason to coast over the fence.

October 29, 2014

I opened another box to unpack today, ready to put away or throw away what was inside (I've decided to get rid of unnecessary clutter while I unpack) and I realized I'd just opened a Pandora's box. It was my maps, maps of London, the UK, Europe, and, most poignant of all, my hiking maps of the Chilterns. As I picked up each one, smoothed it back and sorted it into a pile, I grew sad and mopey, thinking of all the routes I'd not be taking again.

I never used an app or a sat nav; when I arrived in England in 2004 neither was available. I clung to my old fashioned maps, of which I had plenty—some are actually historical maps I acquired, fascinated by how little the English geography had changed in the last 400 years.

After I'd pulled out half the box, I couldn't go any further. It didn't help that it's a rare gray and drizzly day here in Virginia, similar to so many gray days I spent in England. I didn't want to think of the return trip to the Yorkshire Dales I never made, the maps of Florence and Copenhagen I wouldn't need, of Bath and Windsor, of Reading and the Thames Path.

I also found a map of Metro DC and Frederick, Maryland, that some kind soul gave us in preparation for our move. I left them in the box.

One day I'll get out and explore this New World, but not right now, when I've got boxes waiting to be unpacked and a cup of tea to finish off this drizzly day.

October 09, 2014

Those Romans clearly knew what they were on about, with not one but five roundabouts on the way to Cirencester.

I love to drive. In England, I always volunteered to do the driving if anyone was organizing an outing, especially if newcomers were coming along. Most Americans have difficulty driving in the UK when they first arrive, but that's mainly to do with knowing one's way around. The driving part—well, that's easy, I found.

Most Americans assume the hard part of driving in the UK is just staying on the left side of the road. But I quickly adjusted to that. Roundabouts are also assumed to be a problem, but once I figured out that the car inside the roundabout has the right of way, those were easy peasy too. In fact, I soon came to love roundabouts—I enjoyed gliding through them, after a tap on the brakes to slow down, a glance to the right, and then a smooth acceleration into the circle. Signs clearly marked which spoke to get off on, and the lanes were marked with arrows so you knew the proper lane to be in for your exit.

And luckily, I have a good sense of direction, so the winding network of ancient roads in Britain weren't much of a challenge; in fact, I quite enjoyed tooling around, figuring out which village lay in the direction I wanted to go, finding quaint out-of-the-way spots I'd never have found by using a sat nav.

I could go on, but writing about driving in England just makes me sad, now that I'm living in a major metropolitan area in America. The roads here are monstrously wide—some have six lanes, with turn lanes on either side, which, theoretically, should get you where you want to go faster, right? Wrong. At every intersection, including multiple entrances to shopping centers, there's a traffic light. And at each traffic light there are signals to turn, both directions, which mean the red lights last hours.

I can't figure out what people do to amuse themselves while they're waiting at the interminable red lights. I've seen some drivers fiddling with their phones. I've thought about bringing a book to read. Some ingenious marketer ought to provide traffic light entertainment. Maybe a giant screen set up over the lanes, showing YouTube videos or short news clips for the waiting drivers. I'd love to catch up on the latest breaking news while I'm gathering my thoughts at yet another red light.

There are also superhighways here, limited access interstates with names all ending in 95. Some of them have HOV lanes; others have HOT lanes, and I know if I try to drive in them I'll be arrested and summarily shot. So I avoid the interstates altogether, thinking longingly of the friendly M25 as I prepare to brake at yet another red light.

It's nerve wracking, knowing that at any moment a light will turn amber, then red, as I cruise down the road. What if I'm going too fast to stop? What if I'm glancing at the radio dial and I miss it altogether? What if I'm in the wrong lane to turn, or worse, am in the left lane and suddenly everyone in it wants to turn and the traffic whizzing by on the right won't let me get over? And then I have to sit through, yes, another damned red light. And here I am without a book to read.

Another puzzling thing: though I've found people here are amazingly friendly when they're not in their cars—even when they're in close proximity to their cars in the parking lot—once they get in their cars, they can't wait to express their rage. I've been honked at repeatedly, and there's never any of the friendly gestures, the winking tail lights thanking me for letting someone cut in, that I became used to in Britain, where people will cross the street to avoid talking to you in person, but they'll always let you cut into traffic.

I've decided driving is the thing I dislike most about America. If someone could start from scratch, tear up all the roads and begin again, as if they're Roman engineers two thousand years ago, I'm certain the sharp intersections would be replaced by gentle roundabouts. The superwide streets would be supplemented with sidewalks and crosswalks—even a zebra or two would be welcome. And flower salesmen at the stop lights, offering fresh bouquets for a tenner, would go a long way in making our commutes more awesome.

I suspect people would be less cross here in America if they didn't have to worry about stopping for red lights so often, if the wide concrete expanses were less like an airport runway and more like a country lane. And let's replace those HOV lanes with single-track roads, shall we? That'll put a stop to fuel-hogging Americans driving their behemoths to work instead of using public transportation, like sensible people.

September 25, 2014

All the apple products are getting bigger, including this Fuji, next to a two-pence coin for comparison.

I've been here more than three weeks, enough time to have formed an impression, albeit a sketchy, deer-in-the-headlights one.

There are some things I like about this part of America, a region I'd never explored, and some things I don't. But let me start with the food, because that's the most important thing, right?

Pro: The bread. It lasts for days! And then more days! A week, or longer, even. Back in the UK, a loaf of bread barely lasted three days, sometimes less. I'd buy small loaves, or the convenient half-loaves that some supermarkets sell, but even then, we couldn't eat a loaf of bread in three days. Here, I still can't eat that much bread—the loaves are bigger—but at least I don't have to buy them as often.

Con: The bread is almost all non-vegan. Most conventional store brands have dairy products in them. I even found one brand that has fish oil in it! I have to read every label, very carefully, to find a loaf that's vegan, contains 100% whole wheat, and doesn't contain high fructose corn syrup.

Pro: As in pro-duce: Yellow squash! And corn, sold still in its husk, for pennies! Exotic peppers, and other produce I haven't been able to get in ten years.

Con: Potatoes. What a joke. There are two or three varieties of potatoes, the same ones at every supermarket. Yukon Gold is as exotic as it gets. No Maris Piper, no King Edward, no Charlotte, no Mozart, none of the many, many varieties of potatoes, for every potato cooking need—mash, bake, fried, or any combination thereof, with each store specializing in its own varieties of potatoes. And they all taste better than boring Yukon Gold or Idaho Russet.

Pro: There's a plethera of vegan foods available. I've been able to find vegan staples at ordinary supermarkets, like Daiya cheese, Earth Balance, and lots of meat substitutes like Gardein, Tofurkey (their sausage is incredible!) and Beyond Meat. And then there's tempeh, good tofu, dairy-less sour cream and mayo—all this and more can be found without a trip to Whole Foods or some other out of the way shop.

Con: Vegan food still hasn't made it to every restaurant menu. At a Thai place we stopped at in Pentagon City, I expressed a great deal of surprise when there were only a few vegan items on the menu. I was told several entrees could be made with tofu, but that wasn't on the menu. I get the feeling me and my kind aren't welcome at most restaurants. But I am looking forward to checking out the restaurant list at VegDC.

Pro: The produce is huge. I ate a Honeycrisp apple (sorry, I don't see what the fuss is about) and it took about an hour.

Con: The produce is huge. See above. What kind of hormones are they feeding those plants, anyway?

Pro: The hummus lasts a long time, allowing you to stock up just in case friends drop by.

Con: It just tastes meh. Not worth taking up the space in the fridge for a few weeks. I found the same to be true of soy yogurt. I've tried three brands, and none of them are as good as Alpro.

Pro: There's just a lot of new items available, such as a veggie stock that's Asian flavored, quinoa-based ready meals, and coconut ice cream, that all look interesting. And right now, until my shipment containing my cookware and kitchen implements arrives, I'm relying on low-maintenance food more than usual.

Con: I have to read every single ingredient, on every single label, to determine if a product is vegan or not. Lots of seemingly vegan items (pizza crusts, for example) are not.

Vegan treats at VegFest: Worth crossing the ocean for, or at least a state line or two.

Pro: DC VegFest! What a great event. I went to a similar vegan festival in London last year, held in the dreary Kensington Olympia, where we walked around a huge warehouse with only a portion devoted to vegan booths and food. It was hard to get excited about any of it. Maybe it was the lighting. But VegFest, held at Navy Yard, outdoors in the blazing sunlight, was a very happy event, with giant carrots walking around (scaring some of the dogs) and long lines of friendly vegans at all the tasty food booths. Some visitors came from as far away as New Jersey to hear the speakers, which included Dr. Neal Barnard and Bryant Terry, author of Afro-Vegan. I wasn't going to buy his book, but then I saw a recipe for collard greens and cornmeal dumplings, and I remembered I now live in a land where I can go to the store and buy collard greens!

Con: Let's end on a high note, shall we? I'm still jazzed about collard greens, and this is about food, not wine, so I won't mention how very dear (as in $$$) French wine is here. (And also my favorite Maille mustard. Fortunately I mailed (ha!) a jar to myself before I left.)

September 13, 2014

I pulled down the photos from my camera the other day, and found the last pictures I took of the cows from my garden.

I have no garden now; I have a yard. There's a wood behind the fence, instead of a pasture. I've looked around, in the two weeks I've been here (exactly, as of this moment) and I've not seen any cows. I suspect that despite the fact Northern Virginia is more rural than I thought, friendly herds of cows are not likely to be found this close to the nation's capital.

That's a shame.

That means Friday Cow Blogging is at an end. With no nearby cows, or the means to find any, I won't have a fresh stock of original cow photos. (It turns out farmers in the former colonies don't like nosy photographers snooping around their cow pastures. I could get shot wandering around cow pastures here. That's not a risk I'm willing to take for the sake of a few cow photos.)

Many of my cow photos in England and, occasionally, in Europe, were taken while on rambles along public footpaths. I've not seen any public footpaths here either, which makes me almost as sad as the lack of cows. Somehow, this country got settled by property owners who valued their property rights in a whole different way than generations of landowners in the United Kingdom. Trespassers will be shot, and that includes bloggers who only want a good shot of cows.

Maybe more than anything, I miss my cows. They represented something I found unique to England—if you include sheep and other farm animals. I've give anything to see a hillside dotted with cows or sheep, ringed by hedgerows, crossed by a footpath.

A few days before we left, I spied the cows from the kitchen window, and went outside with my morning cup of tea, still in my pajamas. I soaked in the view, knowing it wouldn't be mine for long.

This new land here is vast—any single state is as large as England—but it's also unapproachable. It's been built in ways convenient for shopping; not so convenient for rambling. It's also more dangerous: Even as I type this, there is a report on the local news of a possible cougar sighting, about a mile from here. And a friend's dogs were recently quilled by a porcupine—another danger to add to the growing list.

I try not to think about England and my cows—it's too painful just yet. I'll write more about the differences I've discovered, some good, some bad, later.

Meanwhile, enjoy this last glimpse of the cows. I bet they miss me as much as I miss them.

September 04, 2014

It's not yet been a week since we repatriated to these shores, not too far from the same Potomac River George Washington's ancestor sailed up after crossing the Atlantic the slow way. We came across much faster, on a United jet, the last one to leave on Friday afternoon.

We chose United for their PetSafe program, which allows dogs to travel as checked baggage (with certain restrictions) and is especially geared for military and state department families who are relocating. The pet area of the baggage compartment is pressurized and temperature controlled and has enough room for five pets (but Sparky was by himself on the flight, which he prefers--more legroom).

We weren't sure what to expect when we arrived at Terminal 2 for the flight. All we knew is that we had to be there 3 hours early, with the required paperwork. The whole event turned out to be quite well managed and not at all stressful. We filled out the paperwork and paid for Sparky's travel, then were able to keep him with us until about an hour before the flight, when we went with him through a special security where his kennel was swabbed. Then we said goodbye to him, trying to be cheerful, and went through our own security and then to our gate.

(My last walk on British soil, I realize now, was the grassy area near Terminal 2, where we let Sparky relieve himself before the eight hour flight. I was too nervous to take note, frankly, of the fact I was leaving England for good, after ten years. If I had, I'd have watered the lawn with my tears.)

Once on board, we told Elle, the nice flight attendant, that we were traveling with our dog. She could tell right away how nervous we were, because she offered us Valium. Just kidding, she sold us a bottle (and then another) of red wine.

She also let the captain know that our dog would be on board (pets are loaded last). He talked to the baggage handlers who loaded Sparky onto the plane and reported back to us that all was well.

We were pretty stressed after the week of packing, dealing with the house, and taking care of last minute details in England. I tried to watch a film but I was too nervous. Elle said that sometimes they hear dogs barking in the rear of the plane, so I asked her to let us know if she heard anything. When the flight was over, she told us she'd not heard anything. Still, I couldn't rest until I saw them wheeling his kennel out in the baggage claim, while I was waiting in line at Immigration. The border agent stamped my documents quickly and I raced toward Sparky. He didn't start whining until he saw us, but the attendant who was wheeling him around wouldn't let us open the cage door.

Once we were near the arrivals entrance at Dulles, we let Sparky out and raced to find some grass outside, for his first pee on American soil.

This is Sparky's second "immigration"--he first came to England from Ireland, and now is an American dog, an American dog with a funny accent. He doesn't like the sweltering heat, or the thunderstorms that break overhead almost every evening, but he loves the abundance of squirrels and the woods near our house.

This land near the Potomac seems young to me, with wide open spaces (mostly in the medians of the highways, which are wide enough to build a housing estate) and garish churches made of brick, rather than aged stone. There are ditches rather than hedgerows and strip malls instead of high streets, and people here are downright eager to talk to strangers.

August 24, 2014

Sulgrave Manor, with the flags of Great Britain and the United States of America flying on opposite ends.

It seemed appropriate that our last outing to the English countryside, before we repatriate to America, would be to the ancestral home of the first president of the United States.

George Washington's forefathers were, of course, from England, but he was born in the colonies, in what is now the state of Virginia. His great-grandfather John Washington emigrated on a ship from England, bringing goods to the colonies since they weren't allowed to manufacture anything (really?). When the ship's manifest of tobacco, bound for England on the return journey, was lost, he was blamed. He sought refuge from a local landowner, Nathanial Pope, and ended up marrying his daughter and inheriting land near the Potomac River.

Thus was George Washington born in the United States, rather than at the family's ancestral home near Banbury on the edge of Oxfordshire.

Sulgrave Manor was built in Tudor times, and the original owner was Lawrence Washington, who married well twice and found himself in need of property fitting his social situation. The current house was modified over the years. Half of the original Tudor home burned sometime in the 17th century, leaving a house that's a bit of a hodgepodge, as English country estates typically are.

In 1914 the British Peace Centenary Committee purchased the manor to celebrate 100 years of peace between Britain and America, using funds raised on both sides of the Atlantic. It's now a historical property available for tours and weddings, with a special appeal for curious American tourists like us.

When we arrived, we were greeted by one of the Sulgrave tour guides. After paying our dues, I struck up a conversation with the woman, who mentioned that she was a Tudor historian. After learning I was from America, she told me that Americans must not learn as much history as the British do. I started to explain that we Americans focus on different histories, including the history of our individual states and the Americas, but then I let her go on thinking we were a bunch of ignorant savages. It's more fun that way, I've found: Never let yourself be overestimated by the natives.

Later on, as the tour started, I learned from another tour guide that George Washington actually was a general in the War of 1812! Not, as I'd always assumed, in the War of Independence, or rather, The War In Which The Colonies Broke Away From Their Cruel Overlords. I guess we are a bunch of ignorant savages, because I had no idea George Washington served in the American Army after he was president; indeed, after his death in 1799. We colonials learn something new every day here in the Motherland.

The hour-long tour turned out to be two hours and counting, because the Tudor enthusiast I'd first met couldn't resist joining the tour and sharing every facet of Tudor life experienced in the manor house. I guess she felt it was her duty to educate us ignorant Americans, and I was grateful for that. My previous visits to Hampton Court Palace, Hardwick Hall, Basing House, and numerous other Tudor sites, as well as several history courses at Oxford, didn't include all those details about Tudor food. After all these ten year living here, I finally learned about all the uses for dead mice in Tudor times.

Seriously, I would have quite enjoyed the lengthy tour if we hadn't been in a hurry to leave, as we had to take care of pre-moving business later in the day. These last few weeks have been filled with moments like that: I realize I should be enjoying my last outings in this beautiful and historically rich country, but my mind has been filled with all the logistics of a trans-Atlantic move. I wish there were a shipping company like John Washington's who would just take me and my household goods and most importantly, my dog, straight across the Atlantic, with the impressed sailors from the colonies along to provide protection.

Oops. I was wrong about the origins of the War of 1812, which was started, as we were surprised to learn, because the "Americans wanted to go to war" after the White House was burned. Yep. We were a war-like bunch of colonials even then. The impressment of American sailors had nothing to do with it. Apparently.

Oddly, I noted that this was the only time I've ever heard the War of 1812 mentioned here, and when it was, they had the facts all wrong. (Notice the date for the burning of the White House, 200 years ago today, after the war of 1812 began in—wait for it—1812.) I suspect they don't study American history here.

And thus my last visit to a historical property here brought me full circle to my roots in my homeland, established by those who fled these shores either by duress or by the force of hope offered by a new land. (Or perhaps by a desire to never have to learn history.) I, too, am leaving under duress, yet I have budding hope that my life in what is my "old country" will be prosperous.

August 16, 2014

The other day I heard Sparky barking outside. As I went out to see what it was, I saw a wonderful sight: the herd of cows, missing for the past two months, were running across the field, having just been released into the near pasture.

Of course Sparky was disappointed, realizing the Greatest Threat to Peace had returned, but I was ecstatic.

I was beginning to wonder if the cows would ever come back. I miss them when they're not there—the pasture just isn't the same without my bovine friends.

Later, I got to take more photos of the cows. They came to the fence to see if we still had apples (we did). The cows don't know it, but we toss them apples simply to entice them closer to the fence so I can take photos of them.

August 11, 2014

I was looking forward to visiting the new exhibition centre at Stonehenge, which opened in December. After approximately 20 visits to Stonehenge over the last ten years, I was well aware of the need for some sort of interpretive museum, a way to explain what happened at Stonehenge other than the audio guide you're given prior to viewing the stones.

Plus, I'm always in favor of progress, and a new scheme for viewing Stonehenge, located next to the very busy A303 and almost sideswiped by the entrance road, seemed a no-brainer, despite its £27 million price tag.

Yet, when I finally visited the new Stonehenge yesterday, I left disappointed. It's definitely a different experience than the old Stonehenge, which could be seen in less than an hour, start to finish. But I'm not sure it's a better one, especially for those of us who want to see other sites in the area, crucial to understanding the importance of the location in ancient times.

Visiting Stonehenge is no longer the intimate experience it once was. Previously you could park near the stones, walk up to the entrance, hand your cards to the attendant and grab an audio guide before joining the throngs viewing the stones. Walking to the stones is still possible, but the shortest route involves walking a mile and a half along a paved road busy with trolley traffic and buses whizzing past, in a hurry to get the overflow crowds to the stones. The journey to the stones via the "land train", i.e. a LandRover pulling a trolley, takes ten minutes. After the chaos of the opening weeks, when visitors queued for an hour for a trolley ride, buses were added, but there's hardly enough room for two vehicles to pass on the narrow lane.

Stay to the right to avoid getting hit by the whizzing buses and the "land train".

There's another path that goes through the fields and near the burial mounds (which are very much worth seeing) and though it's longer, it seems much shorter since the walk is more pleasant.

Why English Heritage couldn't separate the footpath portion from the rest of the paved road is beyond comprehension, and downright dangerous. Likewise, I'm not sure why the visitor facilities couldn't be placed closer to the stones. There are several empty (and presumably archaeologically unimportant) fields between the centre and the line of trees that splits the view so that there's no way to see the stones from the visitor centre (or more importantly, to see the visitor centre from the stones). I can see why they wouldn't want to clutter the site, but this is a battle that was lost decades ago. The A303 is still located very near the stones, and in fact, the traffic on the A303 is worse than ever, since the new entrance road for Stonehenge is located past the pinch point where the 4-lane A303 chokes down to two lanes.

The traffic crawls past Stonehenge

Due to the traffic on an August Saturday, a journey that's normally less than an hour and a half became an over two hour trip, and that was with a sat nav detour through Durrington Walls to avoid the heavy A303 traffic. For anyone with timed tickets, getting to Stonehenge would be fraught with anxiety, but fortunately, there seemed to be no reason to have a timed ticket, since we were told to just go to the stones anytime. (We were able to avoid the long queue to get in when we heard someone asking for anyone with English Heritage or National Trust membership to head toward the members-only queue.)

After seeing the queues for the "land train", we opted for the walk (which we probably would have done anyway).

But all this queueing and walking means you're no longer going to be able to stop at Stonehenge to view the ancient stone circle before heading to another destination, like the far more enjoyable Avebury stone circle. By the time we left it was already late in the afternoon.

The visitor centre, with the Disney-esque trolley just leaving

And the exhibition centre itself was less than I'd imagined. It came off a bit slick, like the large cafe and gift shop located across the ticket entrance. A handful of display cases held objects on loan from the nearby Devizes Museum (another place you won't be able to visit if you spend all your time queueing at Stonehenge). There were also large "totems" with quotes on them, a habit of modern museum design that adds very little to one's understanding, frankly. Maybe they should move those outside where people can read them while queueing to get in.

Inside the gift shop I saw some postcards with scenes from the early days of Stonehenge tourism, one depicting a family picnicking amongst the stones. That's when it struck me that this new era of Stonehenge has become even less user friendly than when access to the inside circle was no longer routine, sometime in the 70s. Now I understand why people sound so nostalgic when they refer to the good old days, when the inner circle of Stonehenge was open to all. I have a feeling I'll sound equally nostalgic one day when I remember the time when you could park next to the stones and view them without a half hour walk or an hour long queue.

Neolithic digger?

There's a construction crew digging up the old carpark now, and once it's gone the area surrounding the stones will be even more pristine—if you can ignore the constant coming and going of trolleys and buses and the traffic crawling on the A303, not to mention the hoards of tourists queueing for the best viewpoint of the stones.

I'm more surprised than anyone that my experience turned out to be so disappointing, when I was so looking forward to seeing what they'd done with the place. Obviously something needed to be done, but I'm not sure English Heritage have arrived at the best solution, even after decades of pondering the problem of Stonehenge.

While I used to look forward to taking our houseguests to Stonehenge, I would no longer do so. It's not the easy day trip it used to be, nor is it an easy stop on the way to Avebury or Salisbury.

My advice: Skip Stonehenge and go to Avebury instead. You can still easily see the stones from your viewpoint on the A303 while you're stuck in traffic—and it's a better view than the pig farm that's on the other side of the highway.

If you do go to Stonehenge, plan to make a day of it and opt for the scenic walking path instead of the crowded and dangerous road. Don't bother to reserve a time slot, but do join English Heritage beforehand. (Since they've increased the entrance fee to almost £15, it's really worth it if you plan to see other English Heritage properties.)

But I'm not quite sure that English Heritage has got their money's worth with the £27 million they spent. Perhaps in another three decades or so we'll have yet another solution.

August 08, 2014

One of our favorite places to walk here is Black Park. It's right next to the Pinewood Studios lot, and is often used as an outdoor set for films made at Pinewood. We've come upon sets while wandering around the park before, which adds a bit of drama to our walk.

And also cows. We don't always see cows in the park, but when we do, they're in an enclosed area, so they're safe from dogs like Sparky who hasn't yet figured out that cows are our friends.

A couple of weeks ago, while prowling around the park hoping to come across a set from Star Wars, we came upon instead a herd of brown cows. Sparky looked a little too interested, so we called him back from the fence and leashed him--normally he can run off lead throughout the park with no worries, which is why it's one of our favorite places to go.

I'm not sure who owns the cows that graze in Black Park. Maybe they're there as public amusement, sort of like the zip line that attracts kids on weekends.

Meanwhile, closer to home, my cows have been kept in the far pasture the last couple of months, so I haven't seen them. Which suits Sparky just fine; he has a hard enough time keeping the garden free from squirrels.

July 25, 2014

More Scottish sheep on tap for this week's edition of Friday Farm Animal Blogging.

With sheep as plentiful in Scotland as midges (more so, actually—I didn't see a single midge while I was there, but they tend to stay away from the likes of me), there is no end to the photogenic sheep.

These lambs and their mums were at Corrimony Cairn, where we stopped to admire the archaeological ruins. (Don't tell my family, but I pretend to want to go to off the beaten path sights just to get a chance to photograph farm animals.) The ruins were nice—you can read about them here—but the sheep had built their own clever structure for escaping the chill winds.

Yes, you're adorable

By the way, if you're concerned at all about the environment, and the dangerous build up of greenhouse gases, you probably want to make sure these little guys stay off your dinner plate. Turns out lambs emit a lot of methane. More, per pound, than cows. Hard to believe, I know, they're so adorable, but these guys are serious methane producers.